


you can't torp bureaucracy

by izzybeth



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-wing Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Leia cares too, Wedge is overworked, and a cameo from Koyi Komad, and so does Han but he doesn't like to say, his pilots care about him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 20:37:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5512376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybeth/pseuds/izzybeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is an intensely sad state of affairs," says Wes as he and Tycho head for the sickbay. "We need to do something."</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can't torp bureaucracy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shihadchick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/gifts).



> I NEEDED to write this. You don't understand. Thanks to L for looking this over at such short notice!

"How many times has it been this month?" Tycho stares up at the shattered nose of Hobbie's snubfighter.

"How many missions have there been?" Wes gives the cracked up X-wing a friendly pat, and one of the laser cannons falls to the deck with a loud clang. He winces.

"A number greater than zero," says Tycho.

"Janson!" A shout comes from across the hangar, and Koyi stomps up, lekku twitching back and forth. "Why would you— don't— ugh, just do some more damage, would you?" She lifts one end of the laser cannon and drags it out of the way, rolling her eyes.

"Sorry, Koyi." Wes leans down to help lift the other end of it but stops when she gives him the eye. "Okay, never mind."

"Come on, destructo, let's go grab Wedge and see how our boy's doing," Tycho says, pulling Wes away by an arm. "Sorry, Koyi. I'll make sure he doesn't touch anything else." As they leave, Koyi grumbles dark words about hydrogen-brained pilots who can't even walk two meters without turning perfectly good starfighters into slag.

Wedge is partially hidden behind a small mountain of datapads when Wes and Tycho enter his office. "Hey, boss. How's it going?" Wes asks, slightly wary of the deep line between Wedge's eyebrows.

Wedge looks up, distracted, and then sighs. "It's… it's going," he says, dropping a datapad to the desk. He shoves a hand through his hair and picks up a mug of caf. It's stone cold, so he drops that too.

Tycho and Wes exchange a look. "Ackbar got you hopping, huh?"

"The point of being an X-wing squadron is to blow things up, right?" Wedge asks, apparently apropos of nothing. Wes and Tycho nod. "So why does it require so much datawork?" Wedge pokes at the tower of datapads at his elbow. "Forms for how many torps launched, how many detonated, how many destroyed the target; forms for how much fuel consumed; forms for damage to enemy craft, forms for damage to _friendly_ craft; forms for pilot injury, pilot stress, mental state of pilots; tactic logs, computer logs, astromech logs…"

"Administration will be the death of us all," says Wes, coming around the desk to nudge Wedge in the shoulder. "Take a break. Come visit Hobbie with us."

Wedge sighs again, and stares at the piles of datapads. "Maybe later. I need to clear some more of this out."

"You sure?" Tycho peers into the mug. "We can stop by Downtime, get you a fresh cup."

"Sorry, guys," Wedge says. "You go on; I'll stop by when I can."

"This is an intensely sad state of affairs," says Wes as he and Tycho head for the sickbay. "We need to do something."

"Like what?" Tycho asks. "Do it ourselves? All his datawork has to be signed by him, or the full weight of bureaucracy will crash on his head. And he can't take that right now."

"And you can't torp bureaucracy," Wes observes. "Well, I mean, you _can,_ but we should avoid treason."

"Also Ackbar likes us for some reason."

"Yeah, that."

"Hey, guys," says Hobbie as Wes and Tycho ignore the protesting med droid and pull chairs up by his bed. "You didn't have to come."

"Sure we did, Hobbs," Tycho says. "I had to keep this one from rummaging through your foot locker somehow." Wes makes a 'who, me?' face.

"Please, Tycho, as if he hasn't been through it a thousand times already," Hobbie says. "I never keep anything of value in there."

"He knows me well," Wes says. "So, buddy, we have a problem. Or more accurately, Wedge has a precariously balanced tower of problems which means everyone has a problem."

"I already have a few problems, but please, let's have some more," Hobbie sighs.

"The squadron's datawork is turning Wedge into a lifeless automaton," Tycho says. "He needs some help."

Hobbie shifts in his bed thoughtfully. "I'm stuck in here for a couple more days. I'd be glad to take some of it."

"Tycho said Wedge has to sign all of it—"

"Yeah, just sign it," Hobbie says, like Wes is slow or something. "He doesn't actually have to do the datawork."

"I dunno, Hobbs," Tycho says. "We'd get a supernova's worth of trouble if the higher-ups found out."

"So they don't find out," Hobbie says, like Tycho's the slow one now. "Or we corral them into helping us."

"Oh sure, like who?"

"Solo would definitely be in." Hobbie buffs his nails on the blanket, looking rather satisfied with himself. "And if you get him, you get the Princess for sure. She adores Wedge. Two ridiculously powerful and important individuals for the price of one."

Wes puts his feet up on Hobbie's bed, the extra weight making it bob gently in the air for a moment. "I bet if we explained the situation to Ackbar, he'd give Wedge a break." He grins as Hobbie shoves his feet to the floor again.

Tycho is quiet a moment, but then leans forward. "Okay, here's the plan. Hobbs, we'll send Avan, Feylis, Xarrce, and Plourr in to visit you, and you brief them. Wes and I will get Salm's people with us too. Once we have them on board, our next targets are Ackbar, Solo, and Organa."

"With this much political and military power behind us, we might even be able to get him some vacation," Wes says.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Hobbie mutters, picking at the blanket.

—

"I think it's a great idea," says Feylis. "I'm in."

"Me too," says Avan. Plourr rolls her eyes. "How can we help?"

Hobbie lays out the plan, but Plourr objects. "Why do you think Ackbar's gonna care what we say?"

"There's always a critic," Hobbie says. "That's why we're getting Solo. He's the key. With him, we get Organa, and with both of them we get Ackbar."

"So what, the Rogues just march into Solo's office?"

"Well, Aggressor Wing too," Hobbie says. Xarcce snorts a laugh.

"Is there a particular reason you don't want to help Wedge out?" Feylis asks.

"It isn't that," Plourr says. "I just don't think it'll work. I'll help out, sure, but I think we'll crash and burn."

"Being a pessimist is my job," says Hobbie. "As is crashing and burning. Okay, Plourr, I'll make you a bet. The Rogues are giving Wedge a hand with his datawork anyway, so I'll bet you a third of said datawork that Solo and Organa convince Ackbar to give Wedge a break."

"Fine, you're on." Plourr smirks. "Anything for Captain Antilles."

—

Han raises an eyebrow as what's left of Rogue Squadron, minus their commander, plus General Salm's Aggressor Wing file into his office, all with pleasant expressions (or, in Ilo's case, at least not openly belligerent). "What's the occasion?"

"You like Wedge, right, sir?" Janson parks himself right up on Han's desk.

Han shudders at being sirred, but answers anyway. "Of course I like Wedge. Wedge is great. Starfighter Command would fall apart without him." He ignores Janson's desk-related presumption and narrows his eyes at Celchu. Clearly they want something. Pilots always want something.

"Yeah yeah, he's indispensable, necessary, vital to the very functionality of the New Repub— ow." Janson glares at Ilo. "But he's also under a lot of stress and being seriously overworked—"

"Wedge needs a break," Celchu says. At least one of them can get to the point, apparently. "And we need your help to make it happen." Most of the other pilots in the room nod (Ilo folds her arms and glares).

"He's had a hell of a month, sir," Ardele says, and Han twitches at the 'sir' again. He really wishes these kids would knock it off. He blows out a breath, and realizes Ardele is still talking. "...with Ciutric, and losing Ibtisam, and Fel disappearing, and now there's rumors going around about decommissioning the Rogues…" She trails off, looking sad and uncomfortable. Han is sure Senator Beruss's grand-nephew thinks he's being subtle, taking Ardele's hand while partially hidden behind one of Salm's people, but let it never be said that Han Solo isn't observant.

"Okay, so what's the deal?" Han gets up so as to feel less tiny in front of people he's nominally in charge of. "What are you angling for, a vacation? Because there's a snowball's chance on Jakku—"

"We know that," says Celchu. "Not a vacation, just a break from all the datawork, and maybe a couple days' leave. Nothing extreme."

"'Nothing extreme,' he says, because so many of us have enjoyed a break from datawork and a couple days' leave lately." Han lays the sarcasm on thick. It's one of the few languages pilots understand.

A green-suited Aggressor pilot Han doesn't know steps forward, her cybernetic leg tapping on the floor. "Lieutenant Telsij Cayr, sir. Lost a few bits at Brentaal IV. I was given some time after recovering physically, and I'd say it's only fair. We've all been through a lot, and Captain Antilles more than most."

"Nrin Vakil is on bereavement leave right now," adds Celchu. "And with Hobbie down, the Rogues are off the mission roster."

Janson opens his mouth again, and Celchu kicks him in the ankle. Janson chokes back a yelp, but shuts up. Han internally sighs in relief. There's only so much Janson he can take in a day. "Okay, so you want me to…?"

"If you could speak with Councilor Organa," Celchu says, as if Han isn't intimately familiar with _Councilor Organa_ and doesn't see her as often as he possibly can, "and make our case to her, we'd appreciate it."

"You know the one you really need to convince is Ackbar," says Han.

"We were kind of hoping that a General plus a Councilor-slash-Princess would equal an Admiral," says Janson. His rear is still parked on Han's desk. It makes Han want to find fault with his math.

But he can't, and he has to admit to himself that it's a pretty good plan (even if 'no' is Han's default setting). He and Leia could most likely talk Ackbar around into letting Wedge have some time. But there's one thing the pilots haven't yet made clear.

"Okay. What's in it for me?"

"Well," Beruss pipes up with a sideways grin, "how long has it been since you've seen Councilor Organa?"

—

The restaurant is bustling over the dinner hour, and Han almost misses seeing her walk in. "Glad you could make it, Princess."

"Stop that." Leia drops heavily into her chair. "I owe Avan Beruss a big one; he was— well, I'm not sure what he was doing at the Council, really, liasing, I guess, but Fey'lya was coming for me just as I was trying to leave. Beruss headed him off and I made my escape." Leia eyes the bottle of wine on the table. "That had better be for me."

"I thought we could share," Han says, grinning as Leia gathers the wine bottle into her arms and mock-glares at him.

Later, once they've ordered, eaten, hashed and rehashed recent events, and burned through that bottle of wine plus another, they're both mellow and happy and enjoying each other's company.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in a month," Leia says, swirling the wine in her glass.

"Well, you're not too far off, actually," Han says. "I was stuck on Home One—"

"And then I had to go to Sullust for a week—"

"But we saw each other on Axxila!"

"That doesn't count; it was work." Leia huffs. "Then the Pestage debacle—"

Oh yes, Ciutric. Pilots. Han sighs. "Speaking of Ciutric. I was accosted by Rogue Squadron today; they seem to think I'll be able to talk you around to something."

"Since when have you been able to talk me around to anything, Solo?" Leia has clearly been working on her Corellian smirk.

Han would much rather watch her smirk all evening than talk about Wedge Antilles, but oh well. "Wedge needs a break."

"Wedge?" Leia frowns. "Did I miss a huge chunk of conversation? This wine is really good, but—"

"The Rogues say he needs some downtime, what with all that's happened lately, and—"

"No, you're right," Leia says. "The whole squadron could use some R&R, but first thing's first. We'll need to talk to Ackbar."

Han drains his glass and sets it down. "Not that I don't love your ability to catch onto a changed subject freakishly quickly, or the way you can grab a topic in your steel jaws and run with it, but this pretty much means the end of our pleasantly romantic evening, doesn't it?"

"Not so fast, flyboy," says Leia. She tips the last of the wine down her throat and grins. "Stick a pin in it. There's plenty of evening left."

"Oh, good."

—

The Rogues cram themselves into Hobbie's recovery room: Tycho, Wes, and Avan in chairs, Plourr and Xarrce leaning on the wall, and Feylis perched on Avan's lap "because there's no more space, Tycho." The med droid kicks up a fuss about so many people in a room at once and the Tunroth counting as three, but Wes takes the droid by the arm and leads it into the hallway, where he immediately shuts and locks the door on it.

Hobbie stashes his pile of datacards on the little table and turns to Tycho. "You called everyone in here, and it's cramped and kind of stuffy now, so what's the word?"

Tycho leans forward. "So I get summoned to Ackbar's office, and Wedge looks at me like 'better you than me, buddy,' but still with that confused look he gets sometimes—"

"I love that look. So many memories." Wes's eyes have a faraway look. He tilts his chair back and puts his feet up.

"Feet. Off. The bed. Barbarian."

Wes grins. "Can't believe you're still in here, Hobbs. How long does a new cyber-appendage take to, um, take?"

"You wanna find out? Keep your feet on my bed." Hobbie shoves Wes's feet off with some force, and they thump to the floor.

Tycho sighs heavily. "Can I tell my story already?"

"Yeah, Hobbs, shut up," Wes scolds with a huge grin.

"You're all idiots," Plourr says from her spot by the wall. "What happened, Tycho?"

"Thank you, Plourr. Solo and Organa are there in Ackbar's office; Solo's playing with the floating fish sphere and Organa's trying to get him to stop but she looks like she wants to play with it too—"

"This is relevant?"

"I'm setting the scene, Xarrce. So Ackbar comes in, and Organa jumps right into it: help for Wedge's datawork, some leave time for him, some R&R for the Rogues—"

"Ooh, R&R?" Feylis grins at Avan and whispers something about swimming into his ear.

"I didn't think that was part of the negotiations," says Plourr.

"I got the feeling it was her own idea. Not that we don't appreciate it," says Tycho. "Anyway, Ackbar asks for some explanation, and she launches into a retelling of Pestage, as if Ackbar doesn't know already, and Solo chimes in, and then they both look at me. Which makes Ackbar look at me. So I tell them how exhausted and run down Wedge is, and how he really needs some down time—"

"I should have been there; I embellish the facts way better than you, Tych." Wes lifts his feet to put them back on the blankets without thinking. Hobbie shoots him a death glare, and Wes sets them back on the floor.

"This is exactly why I didn't bring you along, Wes. So Ackbar just looks at us all for a minute, and I've got no idea what he's thinking because Mon Cals are, by and large, inscrutable, but then he says…" Tycho pauses. The momentary silence is excruciating. Then the other pilots all speak at once.

"What?"

"Says what?"

"Tycho!"

"Come on!"

Tycho grins. "He says yes. To the leave, to getting Wedge some help with the datawork, to all of it."

Avan squeezes Feylis's shoulder. "And does that include R&R for us?"

"Indeed it does," Tycho says. Feylis sneaks a quick kiss to Avan's cheek. Plourr makes a gagging noise.

Hobbie smirks. "Well, you know what that means, Plourr. Feet _off_ the bed, I swear I will make it so you need a cybernetic nose, Wes."

"What?" Plourr asks.

Hobbie picks up the datacards on the table and hands them to her with a satisfied smile. "One third of that datawork is all yours. Congratulations."

—

Wedge eyes the tidy piles of datapads on his desk. "I don't get it. All this datawork, and it only needs my signature."

"That seems lucky," says Tycho.

"Mm. And Plourr's been busy with… something. Keeping her face out of fights, anyway. Do you know what she's been up to?"

"Can't say I do, Wedge."

Wedge eyes his second in command. Tycho's face is bland and expressionless. "Uh-huh. And apparently I have a couple days of leave coming."

"Must be nice to be a captain."

"Not to mention they've assigned me an assistant."

"Have they?" Bland. Blander than bland.

"A protocol droid called Emtrey. And I get to go on a planetary system tour in a few months. Propaganda thing, Ackbar says; be the face of the New Republic, get new worlds to join. Kiss babies, probably."

Tycho nods amiably. "Join Starfighter Command, see the galaxy. And kiss babies."

"That's what they say." Wedge heaves a sigh. Tycho is blanding with enough talent and skill to bland for Alderaan in the Imperial Games. Tycho could outbland even the greyest, puffiest, pastiest, blandest Moff. "You wouldn't know anything about this… run of good luck, would you?"

"Not a thing."

"Are you lying through your Alderaanian teeth?"

"Yep."

"I assume the whole squadron was involved."

"And Aggressor Wing. And Solo, Organa, and Ackbar."

Wedge raises his eyebrows. "Do I want to know?"

"Nah."

Wedge nods shallowly. "Dismissed."

"Enjoy it, Wedge. You deserve it." Tycho grins and the door slides shut behind him.

Wedge figures he should maybe pack.


End file.
